


the good part comes (between wanting and needing)

by takesguts



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asphyxiation, Begging, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Kinda Kinky, M/M, Mental Illness, Oops, Orgasm Control, Overstimulation, Panties, Porn with Feelings, Prompt Fic, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-21 02:19:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9527492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takesguts/pseuds/takesguts
Summary: prompt #1: Ian is busy with work lately and everytime he gets home, he's too tired to do anything. Mickey understands this but eventually gets so desperate he considers cheating/does cheat... HOW IT ENDS IS UP TO YOU BUT PLS NO BREAK UP.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> I don't know what happened, honestly. I started this and it took off, like a livewire. Possessed me. LOOK AT THAT SCROLLBAR, DAMN.

It's kind of an insensitive thought to have, but Mickey almost misses Ian's hypersexuality. Or, well, at least reaping in the benefits of a good ass pounding from it.

 

 

  
So they're having a bit of a dry spell, whatever, Mickey's sure it's fine. All couples go through that, right? He's sure if he bothered, he could find a book or two about it in Debbie's room at the Gallagher's, maybe a few magazine articles. If he wasn't so anxious about any one of them discovering him and working out just what he was doing. Being as it is, Mickey is stuck between googling it or the cost of an aphrodisiac.

 

 

  
Which, alternately, should probably be more alarming then missing a symptom of Ian's mental illness, but Mickey is sure he's not above drugging his boyfriend if it means he will at least fucking get some soon. Three fucking weeks it's going on, and it's like Ian hasn't even mentioned it - just puts a stop to Mickey's wandering hands when he gets into bed, laughing tiredly at the insistent press of Mickey's mouth against his throat.

 

 

  
Okay, so in reality - the past three weeks Ian's been working a lot. A whole fucking lot. Picked up for three swing shifts because one of his coworker's is out with the gout, or some shit. Which means three days Mickey basically doesn't see his boyfriend at all, something that is also fine because they've always been a couple who managed to get through a fuck ton of shittier space then merely working a job. And Mickey gets it, can respect the hustle even if he's gotten a bit lazy himself from the casualness and easy hours of being a body piercer. He knows Ian's doing it for them.

 

 

  
Still doesn't mean he's happy about the lack of getting laid; jerking off had become entirely unsatisfying after the first week. He's damn near climbing the walls with unreleased tension; he's got an itch his own hand can't scratch, but he's fucking sure Ian's big fucking dick could. He maybe needs it, just a little. Just a few fucking hours of some good, raunchy roll around in the sheets, doesn't have to be everyday or anything. Though that would be fucking glorious.

 

 

  
Ian's fucking lucky he doesn't work at the club anymore, however, because Mickey would be half out of his mind worried his boyfriend wasn't interested in giving it to him because he was busy getting it somewhere else. He's already pissed at himself for the occasional thought that maybe Ian isn't quite as attracted to him anymore, a voice he shuts down immediately every time it so much as whispers, but it's there.

 

 

It turns out, Viagra is expensive as shit without insurance - of course it is, fucking pharmesutical companies, big name brands charging out the asshole for a pill so men can feel like men again. Practically fucking pillaging on emasculated men who can't keep their dick's up or their wives faithful. Not to mention it's perscription only, though Mickey is sure he could get around that minor detail. Except it's not worth the effort because he knows he'd rather have Ian hard and ready to go because of Mickey instead of some pill induced shit.

 

 

Which is why his second plan is way better.

 

 

  
\- - - - -

 

 

It's one of Ian's early nights, but longer days - which works out perfectly.

 

 

  
Annoying as it was to wake up earlier then he normally would, Mickey is certain that the pay off will be worth it. Way worth it. Three weeks of not having sex and finally getting to have sex worth it.

 

 

  
The Plan starts with a shower - three weeks of not getting laid meant hygiene may have taken a bit of a back burner. Not that he smells or anything anymore, but he could definitely stand to shave some more personal areas. Ian loves him all soft and smooth, will get all growly and handsy while he talks about how sexy he thinks it is that Mickey keeps himself all nice and ready for him. He spends longer then normal washing himself, making sure to get every nook and cranny, using the expensive body wash that came in the cologne gift set Kev gave to him last Christmas. Which was fucking gay, but Kev had laughed at him and told him that that was the point, and well. It didn't end up being all that bad, Ian really liked the scent on him for special occasions.

 

 

  
He even went as far to go grocery shopping himself, paranoid that if he sent Svetlana or Debbie they would be able to figure out his seduction tactic (not having to be paranoid about everyone finding out you were gay left a whole lot of room to be fucking paranoid about literally fucking everything else, apparently.) He's going to attempt to have Ian's favorite, lasagna, ready for dinner by the time he gets home. Attempt being the big key word, because Mickey hasn't cooked anything outside of eggs and a grilled cheese in his entire fucking life. But he's sure Ian will receive the signal he's putting out anyway; any try at some sort of domesticity Mickey makes pleases the redhead endlessly. Even if he burns the food and they wind up having to order out, Mickey knows he'll get a gold star for effort.

 

 

  
There's directions pulled up on the laptop, and a few recorded episodes of the cooking channel on his DVR. The lengths he's willing to travel, fucking honestly - stupid gingerheaded fuck with his huge, perfect cock that gets all up in Mickey's ass like it was just made for it and -

 

 

  
And he's panting heavily over a pan of pasta in the middle of his kitchen. He needs to get a fucking grip.

 

 

  
Ian will be home in a little over an hour, which is plenty of time for the dish to cook and for him to work out the last part of his plan. Setting the timer, he heads back into their bedroom.

 

 

  
It's not something they've ever talked about - hell, it's not something Mickey's even sure he's into. The fabric of the panties feels too delicate in his hands, like if he grips them too tightly they'll fall apart. They're black and sheer, decorated with an intricate, lacy design but that's not why he bought them. Ian might not even be into it, and when Mickey steps into them he feels clumsy and stupid, cheeks burning in embarrassment like somewhere, somehow, someone knows about what he's doing.

 

 

  
Ian might not be into it, but Ian loves his ass - loves it in tight jeans, boxer briefs, or absolutely nothing at all. And this, these - even Mickey has to admit, mouth a little dry as he checks himself out over his shoulder in the mirror, there's no way Ian couldn't appreciate his ass like this.

 

 

  
The cut of the lace stops just below the start of his ass crack, leaving the back of the underwear open; the waistline is a thin strip of fabric held together by a black bow that rests at the small of his back, in between the subtle dip of the dimples there.

 

 

  
He feels a little bit like a pervert, admiring his own (ass)etts like he is, but the fear he had ordering the stupid underwear - of someone finding out, of the package getting delivered to the wrong house, of them not fitting right or looking good is gone. There's no way Ian wouldn't notice this.

 

 

  
The pièce de résistance - which, yeah, a queer fucking phrase he learned searching for sauce recipes is the spritz of cologne on one of Ian's button up shirts that he throws on - it's plain, dark blue and a little large on Mickey, the hem stopping just at the tops of his thighs but it looks fucking good with his complexion, or whatever. Ian had mentioned that before, or something. Besides, Ian loved Mickey lounging around in his clothes.

 

 

  
Which is fuck, what he's supposed to look like he's doing. Panicking at the click of the lock on the front door, Mickey races into the living room, jumping over the back of the couch. He lands awkwardly on his shins, bracing his hands on the coffee table to prevent himself from smashing his face but by the time the front door opens and Ian's in the doorway Mickey is the picture of cool and casual. The television switched off from the recordings and the sports channel is on; Mickey's feet are hooked over the back of the couch, showing off the pale stretch of his thighs.

 

 

"Hey," he greets, thumbing through his phone, trying not to grin smugly and give himself away.

 

 

  
"Mm, hey," Ian replies, "smells good in here, you order food?"

 

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Mickey watches his boyfriend set his keys down and shrug his coat off, unbuttoning the first few buttons of his uniform. Mickey has to resist barking for him to stop and let him do it. He's cool, totally cool.

 

 

  
"Nah man, I uh," and he pauses, suddenly realizing that regardless of how chill he seems, Ian is going to be suspicious, fuck it. For the greater good, and all. "I cooked dinner, it's in the oven. Lasagna."

 

 

  
As he suspected, there's a long pause, and Mickey keeps his eyes trained on the blank screen of his phone, locking it only when he senses Ian coming closer.

 

 

  
"You cooked dinner?" Ian repeats incredulously, and now that he's nearer, Mickey can see how tired his boyfriend is. How mussed his hair is, uniform wrinkled from days without proper wash, skin pale like it was when he first got sick all those years ago.

 

 

  
For a second, Mickey forgets all about seducing Ian and falls into a lurch of concern, reaching a hand out without thinking. Ian grasps his hand back just as easily, offering him a blinding, handsome smile and okay, yeah. Back to seducing, because fuck his boyfriend is gorgeous.

 

 

  
"Figured I'd do something productive with my day off," he murmurs, blinking up at the redhead, thumb stroking along his knuckles, "since you've been working so hard lately, and all."

 

 

  
"Tryna treat your man right, huh," Ian teases, quirking an eyebrow, but yes, yeah - it's already working. Mickey can see in in the subtle smirk on Ian's face, how he's now rounding the couch to get even closer.

 

 

  
"Always tryna treat my man right," Mickey affirms, pulse picking up, because Ian's so close now, leaning down and he smells like sweat and disinfectant but that's fine because when Mickey's done with him he'll smell like them.

 

 

  
"You do," Ian replies, just as quietly, and Mickey has to stop himself from wriggling around in excitement, not ready to ruin the last part of the surprise even though he's about to find out soon enough, this really was a foolproof plan -

 

 

  
And Ian is kissing his forehead, smoothing a hand over Mickey's hair, "thank you for that. I'm fucking starving." Straightening up, he gives an affectionate squeeze to Mickey's throat and heads toward the kitchen.

 

 

  
Oh.

 

 

  
Mickey sits up, a little miffed, and he watches Ian pull out two glasses from the cabinet. He thought for sure that - whatever, he has to wait a little bit longer, so what. Three weeks versus another hour, what's another hour? Besides, he didn't go through all the trouble of cooking the damn pasta so that it would go to waste. Not to mention the shopping. Seriously, not to mention the shopping. Ian would never let him live that down.

 

 

  
Dinner first, sex after. That's fine.

 

 

  
Getting to his own feet, Mickey decides he'll use the extra time to his advantage still. No reason he can't tease his boyfriend while they eat, give him a little taste of his dessert. He pulls the hem of the shirt down, to make sure its covering everything it needs to as he walks and joins Ian in the kitchen.

 

 

  
"Should be done soon," he comments, distracting Ian from where he set the cups down and started reading the directions Mickey stupidly left open on the laptop. "What do you want to drink?" He questions hurriedly, not wanting to give Ian a chance to mention that particularly embarrassing moment.

 

 

  
"Is that my shirt?" Ian responds dumbly, apparently just having noticed Mickey's attire - or really, lack thereof. His expression furrows further, and Mickey turns to the fridge to hide his smirk.

 

 

  
"Is it?" He says indifferently, shrugging as he opens the door, bending over, "didn't notice."

 

 

  
This reaction is immediate.

 

 

  
"What are you wearing?"

 

 

  
"What do you think?" Mickey asks, dropping his voice to that smoky, breathy sort of tone that always gets Ian going.

 

 

  
"What do I..." Ian echoes, sounding lost, and okay, he's not jumping Mickey like he had hoped, but it's probably a lot to take in. After all, Mickey refused to wear a dress when he first came out, mostly in defiance to Ian's initial ultimatum but it stood true and he never has nor will wear a dress. But. This isn't quite the same thing, it's not a gay thing, it's a sex thing - rules change when it comes to things in the bedroom. Besides, it was weird at first, but Mickey thinks he feels a little sexy in the panties, definitely a bit turned on by the obsceneness of the whole thing.

 

 

  
"Is there something we need to talk about?" Ian settles for, and no, fuck. What the fuck.

 

 

  
Mickey turns around, frowning, arms crossing, "No, I don't fuckin think so."

 

 

  
"Did something happen?" Ian presses, gaze searching and Mickey's own eyes harden, narrowing. "What did you do? Are you in trouble?" Everything about the way he's questioning seems tired and familiar, even if it's been years and years since Mickey messed around like that like he used to. At some point he figured out if he wanted to keep spending time with Ian, then he had to stop doing stupid shit to get him taken away. Mickey thought Ian understood that. As it turns out, it appeared as if Ian had just been waiting.

 

 

  
"Nothing fuckin happened man, I was tryin to - I don't fuckin know," he rambles, shaking his head, feeling humiliated. "We haven't had sex in like, a fuckin month and I just thought maybe I could do some shit, or something - "

 

 

  
Ian looks calculating, like he's thinking back to the last time they had sex and Mickey snorts, "Can't even remember, huh? Been working so much lately. I'll remind you. In our bed, a hundred years ago, you made me say you were the fuckin King - which was fucking so dumb, by the way - but I put in some effort to surprise my boyfriend of eight years and suddenly it's Mickey, what did you do?"

 

 

  
"Mick -" Ian tries, holding his hands out in a gesture Mickey's sure is supposed to be placating but only results in irritating him further.

 

 

  
"No, fuck you," he snaps, feeling pissed off and embarrassed, "haven't paid attention to me in weeks, hear you jerking off in the bathroom in the mornings and what? Am I not turnin you on anymore man? Not gettin your dick hard?"

 

 

  
"Mickey, no," Ian says immediately, shaking his head, "it's not like that. I've just been so tired from working and I haven't even noticed that." He stops, seeming to realize it was the wrong thing to say seconds before Mickey scoffs loudly, disappearing out of the kitchen and to their bedroom. "Mickey, come the fuck on, you can't possibly think that I'm not interested in you anymore."

 

 

  
"Why?" He barks, yanking a pair of jeans on, hands shaking - and he really doesn't know why he's so angry. Didn't feel too angry about the whole situation until just now, why else would he have made up this stupid plan? But hearing Ian's rejection - even if he didn't exactly say it, Mickey could feel it, feel how the furthest thing on Ian's mind was getting Mickey into bed. "Cause you've been showing me just how interested you are recently?"

 

 

  
Eight years. Eight years is a long time to spend with somebody, even off and on; it's a long time to get to know somebody. Ian probably knows everything there is to know about Mickey because Mickey can't help himself when it comes to him - will give whatever part Ian asks for over every time, without question.

 

 

  
It's out of his mouth before he can stop it, "Are you cheating on me?"

 

 

  
The silence that follows is heavy; it's not something they've ever talked about before, Ian's infidelity. Sure, at the time it had eaten away at Mickey's guts, small and gnawing and just a little bit painful. Ian was sick back then, though, and the last thing Mickey wanted when he got Ian back was to think he held anything against him about his illness, the way he suffered even if at the time he felt on top of the world some days. When he first got Ian back, he was almost sure that his boyfriend didn't even really remember that.

 

 

  
"Why would you think that?" Ian says quietly, and Mickey can see it, the way he's shutting down. Every instinct has him wanting to step forward, to fix it, because they've done enough to each other over the years. But now that he's said it, he can feel the word vomit that threatens every time he toes the line of vulnerable, it burns in his throat, on his tongue. All the things he's spent three weeks pretending he wasn't worrying about are in danger of falling right out of his goddamn mouth. Fucking Ian, of course it's always to do with fucking Ian.

 

 

  
"You've done it before," Mickey says, soft and accusing, teeth pinching sharply at the tip of his tongue. He won't break down about this, no he fucking won't - it was easy to blame himself before, being the shittier half of the relationship. Fuck, it'd be easy to still do it, because he's still the shittier half albeit less so.

 

 

  
"That was," Ian pauses, clearing his throat because his own voice sounds dangerously close to trembling, "that was a long time ago, Mickey. I was sick, you know this, you know that I never would have - "

 

 

  
"Do I?" Mickey presses, defiant. "Because every time before that you still - you always fuckin had someone else and now you're, you're coming home at all different hours. Sometimes way fuckin later then you said -"

 

 

"I can't control a call fifteen minutes before my shift ends, I have to - "

 

 

  
"Ignorin my - me tryin to start something, always fuckin sleeping or spend our days off by draggin me to your siblings. Avoiding me."

 

 

  
It's not everything he could say, but it's a lot more then he intended. He's hurt, fucking okay, he's fucking hurt - for three weeks it's been like Ian's been shutting him out. Again. In that slow, cruel way Ian does to people - just starts slowly slipping away, taking the smallest steps back that when you finally realize it's way past too late. He's done it to Mickey before, went as far as straight up disappearing, and Mickey knows enough now. Knows Ian enough to recognize the signs.

 

 

  
Eight years is a long time to love someone.

 

 

 

 

  
Under any other circumstance, the realization on Ian's face would have been comical, such a light bulb moment it could have been scripted. He's realizing Mickey's hurt.

 

 

  
"Oh, Mickey," Ian tries, taking a step forward, "Mickey, I'm so -"

 

 

  
Shaking his head, Mickey swallows hard; he feels overwhelmed, never meant for this night to go this way. He was trying, he tried - to be all romantic, or whatever and shit. Tried because that's what he's always done for Ian, all he really knows how to do, and he's spent three weeks wondering if that isn't enough anymore.

 

 

  
"I gotta," he rubs at his face, feels small and fucking stupid, "I gotta take a walk, or." He doesn't finish what he's saying, knows he just needs to get out and think and breathe and maybe sew up the gaping wound over his chest he just ripped open for Ian fucking again. Determinedly, Mickey brushes past Ian, headed for the front door.

 

 

  
Ian lets him go.

 

 

\- - - - - - - -

 

 

It's one of those rare weeks in Chicago where the weather has been steady in it's transition from summer into fall. The days are warm still, with just a bit more wind, and the nights cooler and comfortable. It's Mickey's favorite time - every fuckin body's favorite time, apparently, but fucking whatever. It means he can walk further, comfortably without sweating or freezing his balls off. Not that he has any, really, handed them right the fuck over when Ian asked. Every time he asked.

 

 

  
The notion that you are more involved in a relationship as it's turning out is an ugly one. Suddenly, Mickey is reevaluating every moment they interacted for the past few weeks, every single one of them looking more and more like a sign that Ian's been pulling away. That he maybe picked up all of those extra shifts intentionally to spend less time at home.

 

 

  
Growling, Mickey refrains from punching the corner of the brick building he's passing at the rush of frustration he feels.

 

 

  
Fuck Ian, fuck him for doing this to them, to him. Telling him he's not some sort of bitch for doing things for the guy he fucking loves, then turning around and making him feel like exactly that.

 

 

  
Let's see how he fucking likes it, Mickey thinks darkly, yanking the door to the bar open forcefully enough a few near by patrons glance over. He ignores them, heads straight for the bar and grabs a seat. It's a Tuesday, the place isn't packed, but it's small and popular enough to still be kind of crowded. It's a place him and Ian found one night just outside of all the clubs in Boystown. They had gone out for a date, had attempted hanging out at one of the clubs, but the scene left such a foul bitter taste in Mickey's mouth that he had ended up brooding and sulking, refusing to leave Ian's side and the bar for even two seconds. Needless to say, Ian had picked up on his attitude and suggested they find somewhere else.

 

 

  
Still a gay bar, at least gay friendly - advertised by the rainbow sticker on the front window, but it was small an obtrusive in the corner. Reminded him like a more upscale Alibi, only with a wider beer selection (something Ian got into teaching him about) and the interior design definitely held more of an artistic touch. But Mickey liked it there, they both had - quiet on week nights, a low hum of noise and low lighting. They always ended or started date nights here, anymore.

 

 

  
Except there hasn't been any dates, not for awhile now, and Mickey is here by himself.

 

 

  
He's not sure why he's here by himself.

 

 

  
The bartender doesn't linger after pouring his shot and beer, seems too preoccupied with a blonde haired guy a couple of stools down, but Mickey doesn't mind. He definitely wouldn't be confessing his turmoil to some stranger. The shot goes down easy, and the beer even easier - it's only a handful of minutes before the bartender is glancing at him again, raising an eyebrow.

 

 

  
"Might as well make it two rounds," Mickey mutters, and this time the man seems like he's considering saying something - the age old stereotype of bartenders never seems to not hold true - but Mickey waves him off. He knows he's sending out warning signs in droves, that if he doesn't force himself to slow down after these rounds he will be flagged immediately.

 

 

  
Two more shots and Mickey chugs the second beer, not wanting to risk either going flat or warm. He sips the third.

 

 

  
Already the blood in his veins feels warm, jaw heavy, cheeks flushed - he hadn't eaten, had been waiting for Ian. Alcohol burns almost unpleasantly in his stomach, it's been years since he's gotten sick from drinking; what, with the tolerance he used to have and the more recent lack of drinking he's done. It became less of a habit when there wasn't someone always around to drink with him, a beer or two most nights, maybe. The actual drinking had stopped though, aside a handful of occasions here or there, it just wasn't the same if Ian couldn't join him. Being hammered around your incredibly sober partner just wasn't all that fun.

 

 

  
Everything is always for Ian, even this, he thinks bitterly. Storming out because he could feel the way his heart had been racing, knuckles clenching in eagerness to hit, to start a fight. Another thing he changed for Ian. Ian, Ian, Ian.

 

 

  
"Fuck," he laughs quietly, pitifully.

 

 

  
"Might want to slow down there," someone says to his left, voicing what Mickey had already been thinking.

 

 

  
"Yeah, okay," Mickey says shortly, stealing a quick glance and baring his teeth in a grin that maybe looked more like a snarl, "good lookin out."

 

 

  
"My cross to bear," the guy replies solemnly, not looking at all deterred by Mickey's attitude, "Jimmy."

 

 

  
Jimmy has dark hair, styled in an impressive 1950's sort of coiff, and tattoos covering his throat. A few on his face, even, though it's too dim and the ink is too dark to really make out what they are. He's handsome, Mickey guesses, in that try too hard bad boy sort of way.

 

 

  
It's also clear what he's standing at Mickey's side for, if the way he's checking Mickey out quite happily is anything to go by. A long time ago Mickey might have never even noticed that, some guy hitting on him - not that he has any real practice with it anyway, aside from being able to work out when it's happening.

 

 

  
Case in point: this very moment.

 

 

  
Suddenly feeling uncomfortable, Mickey rubs the back of his neck. It's true, not knowing why he came here; the walk had felt mostly like a black out, stepping blind with one foot in front of the other, no particular sense of a destination. Just wanting to get away, be away. Not let Ian see him like that. He should have considered it, though, what it would look like if he sat down alone. Drinking alone. Should have had the slightest notion. It scares him, in this instant with some man by his side ready to proposition him, that maybe he had considered it and that was why he had ended up here.

 

 

  
"Right," Mickey responds, mouth dry, fingers tightening around his glass. He stares pointedly down at the bartop, refusing to risk looking at Jimmy's face again for fear of what he might see in the stranger's expression. Of what Jimmy might see in his.

 

 

  
"Hmm," Jimmy hums thoughtfully, his own tattooed hand appearing in Mickey's line of vision, tapping his finger tips, "I'm going to take a wild stab here, bear with me. Fight with a boyfriend, or ex? Left before it got resolved, showed up here because well, why not? Good excuse to get drunk."

 

 

  
Mickey hadn't been moving before, but now it feels like he's stopped breathing entirely.

 

 

  
"You a bartender?" He questions gruffly after a beat, taking another swig of his beer. Out of the corner of his eye he can see the slow, pleased smile Jimmy makes. His skin feels like ice, but his stomach boils and burns.

 

 

  
"Was I right?"

 

 

  
Almost imperceptibly, Mickey nods, mouth twisting in grimace, "Boyfriend."

 

 

  
He says it because it's true, because for right now Ian is still his boyfriend and he loves him, loves him so much he's here drinking his sorrows at the thought that maybe Ian might now want to be his boyfriend anymore soon. Drinking because that thought kills him, and he's helpless to stop it now like he maybe could have before. Before Ian ruined him. He says it because maybe it'll put a stop to what's happening, that Jimmy will be deterred and Mickey won't have to make the decision for himself.

 

 

  
"This your first time doing this?" Jimmy asks, low and careful, leaning just the slightest bit closer.

 

 

 

Jimmy is not at all deterred, as it seems. In fact, Mickey would go as far as saying the man might even be delighted by Mickey's confession. Like he was hoping for it.

 

 

  
"First time doing what?" Still, he has to try, has to get his footing some how; he regrets drinking so fast now. He's not drunk, not entirely, but his mouth feels slow and his thoughts are still racing.

 

 

  
Jimmy chuckles in his hear, a dark, thrilling sound that licks at Mickey's spine, has his skin erupting in goosebumps.

 

 

  
"I live in the apartments upstairs," Jimmy says by way of answering, "finish your beer."

 

 

  
Mickey does as he's told on autopilot, palms sweating. He's still not sure why he's here.

 

 

  
Jimmy keeps his hand on his lower back as he guides him out the door and into the lobby of the apartment building next door. Mickey stumbles on his feet, pulse pounding in his eardrums, and lets himself be lead.

 

 

  
\- - - - - - - -

 

 

  
The apartment is nice, way nicer then his and Ian's; furnished smartly and coordinately, but without any air of flamboyance. Just, nice.

 

 

  
It feels like he finally exhales when Jimmy excuses himself into his kitchen to grab them something to drink and Mickey keeps his eyes on the front door as if calculating escape.

 

 

  
Jimmy comes back with two rocks glasses of whiskey, neat and Mickey takes a large, anxious sip. What is he doing, what the fuck is he doing?

 

 

  
It feels like familiar denial, like when he slept with women still; like there was a reason he was doing it, however faulty it was. That there was some meaningful pretense to his actions. That he was here under the guise of buddies, of two guys just hanging out, drinking. That he might not be responsible for whatever happens because he hasn't said it out loud yet, hasn't agreed to anything.

 

 

  
Every word Jimmy is saying as he ushers them through the apartment sounds muted over the pounding of Mickey's heart, the ticking in his brain.

 

 

  
They're in the bedroom and Jimmy's setting their drinks down on his nightstand from behind Mickey, making sure to reach around the smaller man and brush up against him. There are hands on his waist, pushing his jeans down just a little without unbuttoning them.

 

 

 

"Oh," Jimmy says, surprised, and it's then Mickey realizes the first thing he forgot, "what are these?"

 

 

  
Briefly, Mickey panics, making to step away, but Jimmy digs his fingers in then pets them reassuringly.

 

 

  
"Lemme see," he murmurs, maneuvering Mickey so that he's bent over his mattress, palms flat while he shimmies Mickey's pants down.

 

 

  
Jimmy's words, you've never done this before - they're playing on repeat in his head, relentless. Never done this; done what?

 

 

  
"Oh, fuck," Jimmy swears, laughing hotly, "fucking look at that." There are palms on his ass, smoothing over the lace, stroking at the silk bow, a finger dipping along the top of his ass crack. "That ass, man, jesus."

 

 

  
Mickey can feel the heat in his groin, responding to the guy's vulgar commentary and groping hands. A primal need is stirring in his gut, a desire to let himself be touched, be fucked, to get off in a way he hasn't in so long now. He feels himself spreading his legs a little more, bending a little further onto his elbows.

 

 

 

"Yeah, shit," Jimmy groans, "that looks so fucking good, you know? I'm gonna fuck that ass real nice."

 

 

  
His babbling is making Mickey feel embarrassed in a way it normally wouldn't; he doesn't really want to listen to Jimmy talk anymore because it's making him too present, too focused.

 

 

  
"Your boyfriend must be stupid, or fucking blind," Jimmy continues, "letting a sexy little thing like you out of his sight. Thinking some big, bad wolf like me wouldn't come snatch you up."

 

 

  
You've never done this before, Mickey thinks again, and there it is, the other thing he had been trying to forget. Boyfriend, Ian. He's never done this before because he's never wanted to. Doesn't want to.

 

 

  
"Get off," Mickey snaps, standing up, shouldering Jimmy away, "don't fuckin' touch me."

 

 

  
Despite looking confused, Jimmy just kind of seems amused, "hey, hey, relax, you got cold feet." He holds his palms up, the same way Ian had and Mickey feels sick. "All good man. I get it." And maybe it's a little odd how cool the guy is being about the sudden rejection, just as things were getting started but Mickey thinks back to how he hadn't even blinked at the mention of Mickey having a boyfriend, about his confidence during the whole thing.

 

 

  
It's something he's used to, something he goes for; helping guy's cheat on their partners.

 

 

  
"Fuck off," he barks, shaking his head and pulling his jeans up for the second time that night. He's trembling worse then before, though, reeling at the possibility of what he almost just did.

 

 

  
He's headed for the door without any further comment, determined to get out of there as fast as possible.

 

 

  
"The El is three blocks left!" Jimmy calls after him, "You know where to find me if things don't work out."

 

 

  
Behind him, Mickey slams the door.

 

 

  
\- - - - - -

 

 

  
It takes him ten minutes standing outside his apartment - his and Ian's apartment, theirs - for Mickey to convince himself to go in.

 

 

  
The entire walk home Mickey had been panicking, restless with repulsion, anxiety. Nothing about the entire encounter had felt good and he had been relieved to realize while he replayed the events over and over that he had barely even gotten hard. Subconsciously he had decided to try to go for something out of retaliation, out of fear that his boyfriend was up to the same behavior - to see. But consciously he hadn't wanted it, hadn't wanted to follow through. Even if Ian was cheating on him, it wouldn't have made Mickey feel any better to do the same.

 

 

  
By the time he reaches the door, having at least worked through some of his own feelings on the matter, he feels calmer. Calmer then he had been even when he had first walked out on Ian.

 

 

  
He opens the door quietly, in case Ian decided to go to bed in his absence, and if that was the case Mickey would wait. He could sleep on the couch for one night, it's not like he'd never done it before, sometimes just by accident. The itch to wake Ian up, to climb into their bed with him would be there, of course, but Mickey wouldn't be that selfish. Not tonight.

 

 

  
He's surprised when he finds the television on, and Ian sitting on the couch. It's late, he glances at the clock above their kitchen entrance, later then Ian's been staying up recently at least even though it's almost eleven.

 

 

  
Ian turns around at the sound of the door, expression so open and hopeful that Mickey nearly flinches.

 

 

  
"Mick, hey," he says instantly, standing, "fuck, thank god. I didn't - I didn't think you'd come home tonight, which." He pauses, breathing in shakily but managing a small smile. "Which would have been okay, but I'm so glad you did. I want to talk, please let me -"

 

 

  
And Mickey can hear it, can hear the earnest, determined way he's ready to grovel. Ian's always been better at this, at talking. Can say all the things that matter, the ones that hurt and the ones that don't.

 

 

  
"I was with someone," Mickey interrupts, forcing himself to not look away.

 

 

  
Ian's expression drops instantly, "What?"

 

 

  
He does nothing to hide the shuttered, pained one that's taking over now shifting between disbelief and fear and something much, much worse.

 

 

  
"I went to our bar," Mickey continues through his shallow breaths, the ache in his chest at the way Ian's clearly crumpling in front of him, but he has to say this. He has to say this because it matters, and if he's got one last shot to try for Ian, he's going to take it. "I went there and there was this guy. He took me up to his apartment."

 

 

  
At this, Ian makes a choked sound, nearly a sob. He brings a hand up to cover his mouth, the other braced against the back of the couch like he's seconds away from dropping to his knees.

 

 

  
"Why are you telling me this," he says hysterically from behind his hand, gaze shifting restlessly, looking everywhere but Mickey now, "why are you here telling me this?"

 

 

  
"We went to his room, Ian," Mickey says carefully, trying to keep his voice even, his own eyes burning and he wipes furiously at them.

 

 

  
"Don't," Ian warns, another short sob wrenching from his throat, "don't tell me this, I don't want to hear this shit."

 

 

  
Shaking his head again, Mickey takes a few cautious steps forward despite Ian backing away immediately; he figures he deserves that.

 

 

  
"No, listen," he insists, finally close enough to reach for Ian's wrist, fingers curling loosely around it. Ian turns his body away, face down, but doesn't move his hand. "Listen to me, Ian. We - he took my pants off - "

 

 

  
"Fuck," Ian gasps, staggering as he rips his wrist free, "are you punishing me? Is that what this is?"

 

 

  
"Ian," Mickey repeats loudly, reaching out one more time, "Ian nothing happened. Nothing happened, I couldn't."

 

 

  
Ian's crying freely now, tears rolling down his cheeks steadily, but he's quiet otherwise, shoulders drawn in on himself.

 

 

  
"I couldn't sleep with him," Mickey explains, overwhelmed with what he's about to say, about to do.

 

 

  
Eight fucking years.

 

 

  
"I couldn't sleep with him because I didn't want to, because he wasn't you." He reaches his other hand out, for Ian's other wrist, tugging him forward. "He wasn't you, Ian, nobody is and I." He swallows his own sob, squeezing his hands gently. "And I need you to know, that even if I ain't. Ain't doin it for you anymore, that there's no one else who does it for me. That if you want to leave me it's because you want to, not because I gave you no other choice."

  
That's it, that's everything left inside of him - weak and messy and all sort of sharp, shattered pieces but it's the last of it and it's all for Ian.

 

 

  
Ian's hands are suddenly on his face, cupping his jaw while he brushes his nose alongside Mickey's, crying louder now, repeating Mickey's name over and over. Mickey reaches up to grab at Ian's biceps, gripping tightly while he shakes. He's not crying, but his bones tremble like he is and it's entirely difficult to keep standing.

 

 

  
"Mickey, Mickey," Ian says brokenly, lips brushing against his cheek as he speaks. He dips his face down, presses their mouths together desperately and his lips are salty and wet. Mickey kisses him back clumsily, just as desperate.

 

 

  
They stumble to their bedroom, undressing along the way, hands grasping and searching. Mickey hits the mattress first, Ian climbing close behind him, easing onto his side. One arm curls above Mickey's head, his other elbow coming to rest on the other side of him, so that he's twisted awkwardly, hovering closely over his boyfriend. Mickey blinks up at him, and the position can't be comfortable but he feels entirely caged in by Ian; surrounded and overwhelmed, exhausted.

 

 

  
Ian kisses him again, until he's breathless and shivering, eyes wet. Until the fast, possessive making out turns into soft, slow, wet clicks and shifts of their jaws that leave Mickey keening pathetically. Growling, Ian grabs one of his hands, leading it down to his crotch so Mickey can palm him through his boxers.

 

 

  
"For you," he whispers, and Mickey squeezes his hand, sighing.

 

 

They fall asleep pressed close, like when they were teenagers sharing Ian's single bed.

 

 

  
\- - - - -

 

 

  
When Mickey wakes up, it's still practically dark out, and when he squints to read the alarm it's six AM, two hours before Ian has to get up. Which, why is he up, why is - sudden panic sears through his body, fearing Ian disappeared in the middle of the night. That them falling asleep together had been some sort of dream, or maybe the best kind of nightmare. That Ian let him have one last taste of closeness before he finally left for good.

 

 

 

 

"They look sexy, Mickey," Ian praises from behind him, startling him as his hands start curling around Mickey's thighs to push him onto his knees. Oh.

 

 

  
"Wha," Mickey garbles, attempting to push up onto his hands so he can look back at Ian, fighting through the haze of still waking up.

 

 

  
"The panties," Ian says simply, one hand cupping an ass cheek, the other pressing gently on his spine, preventing him from sitting up, "I'm sorry I didn't tell you that last night. They're really fucking sexy."

 

 

  
"Ian," Mickey replies slowly, "you don't have to, fuck. I mean, shouldn't we."

 

 

  
Clicking his tongue, Ian shushes him, trailing a finger tip along the waistline of the panties, "Shouldn't we talk? Sure, and we will. Later." He snaps the fabric against Mickey's hip, making him jump, a startled noise escaping his throat. "Realized while you were gone how much I missed this."

 

 

  
He tries one last time, "Really, man, it's not about -"

 

 

  
"I know," he cuts him off, sounding a little harsher, but not angry, "I know it's not about the sex, Mickey. It's never been about the sex with us."

 

 

Cheek against the mattress, Mickey smirks just a little because Ian isn't wrong, not by a long shot - in the beginning, Mickey convinced himself it was the only reason he kept going back.

 

 

  
"Now, let me remind you how good you've got it here," he says darkly, possessively, "so that you never go searching anywhere else again."

 

 

  
Any thought Mickey might have in response to that, to assure Ian again that it wasn't like that gets lost at the feel of the redhead's tongue wriggling between his ass cheeks through the panties. He pants wetly against the fabric, breath hot while he licks eagerly, working to press against his asshole. When he's gotten the fabric damp enough that he can get closer, that it hardly feels like a barrier between his mouth and Mickey's asshole he groans loudly, taking a deep, heady breath through his nose.

 

 

  
Mickey, who had been squirming and whimpering twitches violently at the ministration, reflexively pushing his ass back, fingers tangled in their sheets, one in his own hair, curling around dark strands.

 

 

  
It's damn near animalistic, the way Ian starts honest to god sucking at his rim, hungry and noisy while he spits crudely, making Mickey cry out at the feeling.

 

 

  
"Fuck," he moans, gasping, "fuck, oh my god."

 

 

  
"Yeah, Mickey," Ian grunts, pulling back momentarily, and Mickey manages to work himself onto one elbow so he can peer back over his shoulder. All around Ian's mouth and chin is wet, shiny with spit. Ian grins at him, wide and filthy before he yanks the panties down to his midthigh, palms spreading his cheeks further.

 

 

  
"Ohhh," Mickey whines, elbow slipping and his face hits the mattress again, tongue licking his lips compulsively while his thighs twitch. Ian's eating him out in earnest now, like a man starved; suckling at his asshole, making fat, sloppy laves with his tongue before using his thumbs to hold his ass open even further. He shoves his tongue in without much warning, and it's not the most skilled rimjob Ian's ever given him, but it's definitely the hottest.

 

 

  
It takes a few tries, muscle against muscle, Ian's tongue working him open, getting him loose enough so he can shove it completely inside his ass.

 

 

  
Mickey nearly buckles, hips dropping and jerking, "yes," he cries, lewdly spreading his thighs further and he can feel Ian's chuckle more then he can hear it, "yes, Ian, ohh."

 

 

  
Ian's fucking him with his tongue, deep and thorough, steady enough to have Mickey writhing and begging. His hands are curled around his thighs now, letting Mickey press back against his face.

 

 

  
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he babbles, and his cock his hard between his legs, aching and hot, of course it is, but it's nothing compared to how good Ian is working his ass. He doesn't need to touch his cock, probably couldn't even if he tried. Ian's making small, encouraging sounds in his throat, his jaw must be fucking aching but he doesn't stop the way he's positively devouring Mickey's ass.

 

 

  
"Fuck me, fuck me," he moans, the sheet beneath his face damp with sweat and drool. He's yanking on his own hair now, a sharp contrast to the intense, needful ache in his ass. He wants more, wants Ian.

 

 

Ian doesn't stop, though, doesn't relent just fucking keeps at it until Mickey is begging, "Fuck me Ian, please, please. Fuck me, I need it, I need it." He can't stop the helpless, eager words tumbling out of his mouth nor the way he's scrambling to grip at the sheets, tangling.

 

 

  
"Mmmn," Ian hums, a fingertip tracing down the crack of Mickey's ass before shoving it inside, quickly followed by a second. He pulls his face away, sitting back on his knees while he fingers Mickey brutally, without any build up.

 

 

  
"Fuck, I'm hard," he swears, sliding the head of his cock along the back of Mickey's thigh, "feel that?"

 

 

  
"Yess," Mickey hisses, eyes crossing, "so hard, Ian, give it to me, make me take it."

 

 

  
A third finger pushes in while from somewhere, Ian opens a bottle of lube and drizzles it over his thrusting fingers. Mickey already feels so wet, enough so that he could have probably taken Ian's cock without the lube, but the slicker, filthy sounds that start when Ian adds it make them both groan appreciatively.

 

 

  
"You hear that?" Ian growls, fucking his fingers faster, "hear how open you're getting for me?"

 

 

  
"Now, Ian," Mickey pleads, because he can feel it, the way his balls are tightening, the familiar liquid heat working it's way down his pelvis. His cock feels wet with precome, the tip dragging helplessly against the sheets, "inside, need your cock inside me."

 

 

  
"Yeah," Ian urges, "yeah you need this cock?"

 

 

  
Fervently, Mickey nods, clumsily attempting to reach back, "yes, yes, yes," he chants, alarmed at the way his legs are beginning to quake, "Ian, you need to - I'm gonna fucking come."

 

 

  
"Mmm, yeah," Ian sighs, and Mickey can hear his boyfriend jerking himself off, "gonna make you fucking come."

 

 

  
"You are," Mickey echoes, desperate as he tries to squirm away, tries to stop it, but Ian isn't letting him, just follows the shift easily, hand working even harder in his ass now, fingers jabbing brutally against his prostate without any precision. "Nnn, nn, stop, Ian stop," he says, one last time, but he knows it's too late anyway, his thighs are trembling, balls aching, "I'm fucking, fuck I'm -"

 

 

  
As he comes, Ian stops his hand, pulling his fingers out quickly. It's pure torment, the slow roll of his orgasm through his hips, cock jerking pitifully as it pushes out a pathetic amount of come from the lack of stimulation. His whole body is burning, shaking in unsatisfied sensitivity, and Mickey reaches for his dick, attempting for some sort of stimulation before he finishes completely.

 

 

  
"Ah, ah," Ian smacks his hand away, sounding pleased as fucking punch, "do you know how sexy that was? Looked fucking intense. You need more, though, huh?"

 

 

  
His ass is throbbing, heart racing as he gasps for breath, "what the fuck?"

 

 

  
"I got what you need," Ian assures, darting forward to kiss the top of his head before flipping Mickey over, a show of his strength while he manhandles Mickey into a position he likes. "Don't worry."

 

 

  
Above him, Ian oozes pure sex as he looks down at Mickey through heady eyes, pupils blown. He's fucking gorgeous, taking what he wants like this, it's been so fucking long, but Mickey can't remember it ever being this good. This feels brand new, like staking a claim all over again.

 

 

Shoving his cock inside, Ian wastes no time in building up a hard, steady rhythm that has Mickey jerking up the bed underneath him.

 

 

  
"Oh fuck," he whimpers, twisting pathetically as Ian grabs his wrists with his hands, pinning them above his head, and he realizes what Ian was doing now.

 

 

  
The drag of Ian's cockhead against his prostate is too much, way too much. The weak, unstimulated orgasm from just moments ago left him over sensitized and the more Ian rolls his hips, pressed close and tight so his cock stays deep, the more every nerve ending in Mickey's body tingles and aches.

 

 

"Fuck," he says again, voice thick, "Ian, fuck that's - it's too much."

 

 

"Is it, baby," he goads, thrusting harder, faster, "is it too much for you?"

 

 

Tossing his head back, he squeezes his eyes shut momentarily, tearing up before he opens them, blinking rapidly. He wants to say it again, to plead with Ian, ask him for just one fucking minute, he just needs one fucking minute, but his mouth won't form words. The only sounds he can make are humiliating, high pitched and breathy as Ian fucks him mercilessly. Fucks him hard and deep, ruthlessly humping him into the bed, rendering him helpless to do anything but lay there and take it.

 

 

  
Ian isn't deterred, chuckles breathlessly at Mickey's incoherence, rocks forward to bite and lick at his jaw, his lips, and Mickey tries to push his mouth back, tries to kiss him properly but Ian is kissing him the same way he's fucking him. A string of saliva connects their lips as he parts their mouths, but Ian licks at it crudely, sits back to wrap a hand around Mickey's throat.

 

 

  
"I love you, Mickey," Ian says, staring at him steadily, "I love you so much."

 

 

  
His fingernails are scratching down Ian's back, his shoulders, legs hooked around his back; he nods eagerly, trying to tell Ian that it's okay, to do it because he wants it.

 

 

  
The hand around his throat tightens, and Mickey sucks in a stunted breath, looking up through his eyelashes as Ian chokes him, firm and sure.

 

 

  
"Oh, Mickey," he sighs, dropping his head back momentarily, seeming just as wrecked as Mickey feels. His cock is hard again, but it hurts and he whines when Ian wraps his hand around it, jerking him slowly in contrast to the pounding of his hips.

 

 

  
Everything in Mickey's body is screaming to get away, to get Ian to stop. He can't breathe, his hips are attempting to twist away from the hard swipe of Ian's thumb over his slit on every upstroke.

 

 

 

"Gonna make you come again," Ian promises, the roots of his red hair dark with sweat and his skin is slick underneath Mickey's steadily shaking hands.

 

 

  
Mickey wants to say no, that he can't, that there's no fucking way, wants to shake his head, but his vision is spotty and he's trying to take deep, desperate breaths through his nose, through his mouth, he needs to breathe, needs to fucking -

 

 

  
The sound he lets out when Ian releases his throat, just as he starts to come, is one Mickey isn't sure he's never made, doesn't think he could make it again if he tried. It's more of a scream, really, and he thrashes through the orgasm. It tastes like blood in his mouth, white noise in his ears, pulse soaring.

 

 

  
Vaguely, he's aware of Ian still fucking him through it, an insistent, hard thrust of his hips before he stills, a hand against Mickey's cheek.

 

 

  
"Fuuuck, fuck," he moans, rolling his pelvis once, twice, working his cock deeper, coming inside Mickey, "so fucking - so good, Mick, you're so fucking good."

 

 

  
Ian collapses closer, elbows on either side of Mickey's head while he breathes heavily, his own hips twitching as he finishes completely.

 

 

  
Mickey can't move much, except to flex his fingers weakly, tugging at the back of Ian's hair. He's so aware of Ian's cock, still slightly hard, of the come hot in his ass.

 

 

  
He still needs to breathe.

 

 

  
Like he read his mind, Ian rolls off of him onto his back; they're both starfished side by side, panting noisily into the quiet room. It's lighter out, the beginnings of sunlight slithering through the space in the curtains. Beside him, Ian laughs out loud, cursing.

 

 

  
"I need a cigarette," he mentions, but makes no move to sit up. Lazily, he swipes at Mickey's hair, missing and knocking his forehead with his knuckles instead. Mickey doesn't know how he's even moving at all.

 

 

"Hn," he grunts in reply, eyes drifting closed.

 

 

  
He's falling back asleep pretty quickly when he feels a finger prodding at his asshole, jerking him awake.

 

 

  
"Don't," he says immediately, legs closing responsively, "I can't."

 

 

  
"Wanna see my come slide outta you," Ian pouts, giving the slightest press of his fingertip.

 

 

 

 

  
Jaw dropping open, Mickey forces himself to relax his knees, pulling them apart. Ian's come is warm against his rim, dripping slowly and he doesn't look away while Ian stares.

 

 

  
"Fifteen minutes," Ian concedes, "I'll give you fifteen minutes while I call out of work. Now that I've proven who owns that ass, I gotta make sure you know how sorry I am."

 

 

  
Pecking Mickey's forehead, his nose, his mouth, Ian rolls out of bed, naked and stunning, the man of Mickey's fucking dreams. They'll have to talk, at some point, and Mickey knows they will. But as he watches Ian walk out of their bedroom, the skin of his back covered in deep red lines, Mickey feels lighter then he has in weeks.

 

 

  
Whatever Ian has to say, Mickey is listening.

**Author's Note:**

> FOR YOU, DARLING. I HOPE IT WAS CLOSE TO WHAT YOU WANTED.
> 
>  
> 
> I had so much FUN, writing this. And what, actual porn? Not semi-porn? What am I becoming? 
> 
>  
> 
> (sorry if it made u guys cringe, though. I'm trying! I'll get better!) 
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for stopping by! 
> 
>  
> 
> Namaste~
> 
>  
> 
> ALSO:
> 
>  
> 
> [the panties!"](http://www.wholesale7.net/japanese-fantastically-sexy-panties-black-low-waist-lace-sweet-panties-antibacterial-bow-panties_p143189.html)


End file.
